“Glad I didn’t land there,” Tony commented, as he crawled up the rock to the ’chute. There he tugged the shroud lines so that the container, which was hanging free in the air, swung over close to Dick, who caught it and cut it loose. Then Tony retrieved the colored ’chute and they continued the search for the other one.
It took them ten minutes to find it, and by that time dawn had really come. The birds in the trees were chirping and flitting about but no other sound came to them. When they had gathered everything together, they set out to find the others of their party.
“Must be about three-quarters of a mile,” Dick said. “No matter how fast they went out of the ship they’d be spread over that much territory. We can start whistling pretty soon.”
After a hundred steps through the trees, heading northward parallel with the ridge of the hill above them, they began alternately to give poor imitations of bird calls. But the birds themselves were singing so vigorously, as if they did not realize a war was going on, that the two Americans began to wonder if their calls would be heard. In a few minutes, however, they heard a call like their own.
“That’s no bird,” Tony said. “Only Vince Salamone could make a sound like that.”
They hurried down to the left, from which the whistle had come, lugging their heavy containers with them. They saw Vince Salamone and “Boom-Boom” Slade sitting on their equipment under a tree. Vince was working so hard at whistling that he could not hear the replies which Dick and Tony were giving him. And Slade was pursing up his lips repeatedly without a single sound coming out. The demolition expert could not whistle a note!
Dick called out when they were close, and the two men jumped to their feet. Happy to learn that neither one had been hurt in his landing, Dick checked over the equipment to be sure it was all there.
“Right—three containers and five ’chutes!” he said. “Let’s go.”
Dick led the way as they went forward to the north again. It was hard walking, for the hill was steeper, and ahead Dick could make out an outcropping of rock that rose straight up for about twenty-five feet. He began to whistle once more, looking for either Max Burckhardt or Jerry Scotti. After a few minutes he heard an answering whistle and stopped.
“Where’s that coming from?” Dick asked, puzzled. The whistle seemed to be ahead of them, but just where was not certain. So they walked forward more steps, whistled again, and heard a reply. Then they heard a voice.